( he breathes out sharply, stubborn and not equipped to handle this. not the way it really deserves to be handled, but fuck that. he's himself. he'll handle this the Yuri Plisetsky way. )

Nastenka. I want to.

( he'd sound mildly offended if he weren't instead reaching out to flick her forehead, gently. he's not so thick that he can't see he's lost her along the topic jumping he's been doing on his own; he clenches his jaw, considering what the hell do I do. Yuuri hadn't been helpful. only said he needed to give an answer one way or another.

he'd found it weeks ago. he's distilled it since then. he did not think he'd be saying what he is, because it had been, at first... )

Do you remember when you confessed to me and I freaked out and told you I needed time to answer? Do you have time to listen to me now? Before something else happens and it's another five weeks or five months or ten years or what-the-fuck-ever and I don't know where any of my friends are and I can't get back in touch with them and there's too much I haven't said.

( he's let his hands drop away from the collar of the jacket, falling back to his sides. he's not going to hold on to her for this, for all he's intently focused and watching her now.

will you be my friend or won't you?

of course we're friends.

how do you know?

I love you. he's not sure about that last one. doesn't think he will be for a while, because he's still figuring out what that means for all his friends. looking at it from any other angle, he has hang-ups, and he's gunshy, and he's fucking tired of himself. best to clear the air now and let them both figure out where things fall after. )